


Eternal Colours

by Leareth



Category: Tokyo Babylon, X -エックス- | X/1999
Genre: Aftermath, Art, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Gen, M/M, Memories, Surreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-24 23:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3788005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leareth/pseuds/Leareth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forty years after the Final Day, a young couple move into a new home with dreams of a new life. Those dreams turn to something dark and frightening when the husband discovers a strange secret hidden away that has to be told.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First

**Author's Note:**

> First published 2003.

The apartment was probably a little on the wrong side of what was healthy for their budget, but newly-wed Hajime Negi wanted to please his wife. What he didn't tell her was that the size of the mortgage was such that he would have to pull significant overtime at the office to ensure they met the repayments, and as a result would have less time to spend with her. Had he been confident enough to say so, his wife might have told him that they really didn't need such a nice apartment and that she would have been satisfied with something less up-market. Hajime wasn't a confident person.

To make up for his hours, he tried to make the most of their time together when he did manage to be at home. His wife was deliriously happy in the way that only new brides could be; she had always wanted a home of her own, and was having the time of her life cleaning and rearranging the furniture in the apartment. One day she asked Hajime to install some new shelves in the wardrobe in the room they were using for storage. Hajime had the suspicion that his wife envisioned turning that room into a child's bedroom. So, one afternoon on the weekend while his wife went grocery shopping, Hajime tried to turn his hand to carpentry. He managed to measure out the boards properly and mark the places where he was going to put the nails, that was the easy part. Then came the problem of actually hammering the nails in. Hajime wasn't much of a handyman to begin with and the awkward position he had to sit in inside the wardrobe didn't help. The first time he tried he missed and nearly hit his thumb. The second time he did hit his thumb. The third time he finally managed to hit the nail, but the nail went right through the back of the wardrobe and fell down.

Hajime frowned and forgot his sore thumb for a moment. There was a hole at the back of the wardrobe. Sticking his finger inside he realised that what he had thought was the wall was actually a false panel.

Curiosity made him more daring. Hajime hooked his finger into the hole he had made and tried to pull the false panel out. It shifted a little, shaking free a cloud of plaster dust that he made him sneeze. Finally the panel came loose and a crack appeared along the back of the wall about two feet from the ground. Frowning, Hajime inserted his fingers into the crack and pulled. The whole panel came out.

Carefully Hajime lifted the panel out of the wardrobe. Once he had placed it against the adjacent wall he returned eagerly to the floor of the wardrobe to see what he had found, his list of chores for the day forgotten. Inside the cavity was a chest. Hajime ran his fingers over it, and, finding somewhere to grip, heaved it out. It was heavier than he expected and he strained his muscles, but he managed. Once he had it in the open he inspected it again.

The chest was large, approximately half as wide as it was long, and about fifty centimetres deep. It was built of a dark wood, and when Hajime dragged his hand across its surface to wipe away the dust his reflection was swallowed in the lacquer. There was no design or pattern on the surface, nothing that might give a hint as to its origins, but it was elegantly constructed like a woman's jewellery box, its beauty lying in its almost stark simplicity. Maybe it was something the apartment's previous owner had forgotten and left behind. Or maybe it had been the owner before the previous, or the one before that. Whatever its history, maybe Hajime could sell it or return it for a reward.

Feeling a little like an intruder who has come upon a sacred temple, Hajime looked for a way to make the chest open. After a minute of careful scrutiny Hajime found the catch. There was no lock, only a silken black cord tied in an elaborate knot. Hajime made several attempts to undo it, but the knot was too smooth and he couldn't even find where it began. He was about to give up when the knot simply fell apart. Hajime thought that his attempts had loosened it.

Putting the silk to one side Hajime lifted up the lid and looked eagerly inside. At first he thought that the chest was empty, it was so dark. Then he realised that the chest wasn't empty, it was just that whatever was in it was black. Packed into the chest were several identical cases of such a size as to hold a small picture frame. They were stacked against each other like thick cards.

The underside of the lid also proved to hold something. There was a pocket there, not unlike those in violin cases where string and resin is kept, with a lid of black velvet. Unhooking it Hajime found his first hint of what this find could be. Set out in perfect organisation was a set of painter's brushes. There were several of them of all sizes, and judging from their worn and stained heads, had been in frequent use.

There was another smaller pocket beside this one inset into the lid. Opening that one Hajime had to move quickly as some things fell out. Pieces of silk, black silk, like that which had been tied around the chest's catch. Why they were there Hajime couldn't imagine.

He found a probable answer to that when he turned his attention to the cases that took up most of the chest. Picking one at random he pulled it out and felt something shift inside. The case was stiff and covered in dull black leather. When angled against the light Hajime could see that there was some design emblazoned on it, lines where the leather had been pressed smooth. He couldn't see what it was, but he did find a clasp on one side. It was held shut by a thin silken black cord tied into an elaborate endless knot.

Hajime frowned and looked at the other cases. All of them were tied closed in exactly the same way. None of them would open, except one. The knot on that one fell apart the moment Hajime touched it, slipping through his fingers like dark water. By now Hajime had come to the conclusion that he had gone too far to back out now, and opened the case without hesitation.

There was a piece of canvas inside the case. Hajime slid it out and spread it over the floor. He frowned. The canvas was a painting. Hajime knew nothing about art, but he was rather sure that this wouldn't be any kind of masterpiece. The painting was amateur, almost childish, yet there was a certain dignified quality to it that Hajime could only associate with an adult.

He looked at it more closely. Hajime became lost.

The background was slate grey but hardly visible since nearly all of the canvas was filled with white circles. Each white circle had a small black line at the edge, like a mouth. Now that Hajime though about it, the white circles seemed like representations of faces in profile, scores of them, without eyes or noses. There was only one that stood out. It was placed in the upper left-hand quadrant, and it was black. It had an open mouth and a pair of white eyes that stared directly out of the canvas. Despite the face's stylized simplicity, Hajime couldn't help but think that it was drowning.

Drowning, in a sea of faces that didn't notice or care.

Hajime didn't know how long he sat there on the floor staring at the picture. Suddenly there was the sound of a door unlocking. Hajime started, jolted out of a haze of passing faces on a street where he didn't exist. Shoving the picture into its case he stuffed it and the pieces of silk clumsily into the chest. He braced himself against the floor to use his legs to push the chest back into the wall cavity, then grabbed the false panel and put it pack in its original position just as his wife came looking for him. 

His wife frowned. Her husband was sitting in the wardrobe. "Hajime dear, what are you doing?"

Hajime stared at her for a moment, pulling himself out of a swirl of white faces. His chest, he noticed suddenly, felt tight. Suddenly he leapt to his feet, and, crossing the distance between them in two steps, pulled his wife into a harsh embrace.

"H-Hajime?"

Hajime buried his face in his wife's hair. It smelt of apple shampoo. She fell quiet in his arms, then hesitantly reached up to hold him close.

"Dearest," asked his wife worriedly, "what's wrong?"

Hajime closed his eyes. "Nothing," he murmured, losing his voice in her hair, "nothing. I'm just … glad you're here."

 

_It was the first time he had used the chest's contents. It had been sitting in its lair for years, never looked at or thought about ever since it had first been given to him just like it had been given to all those before him. It had come to him empty. He wondered if that was significant._

_The brush lay heavy in his hand like it had done for the past two hours. Beginning is always the hardest._

_Finally, with slow hesitancy, he decided on the grey. He wasn't sure the reason why, but he did. He poured a little paint out onto the plate and mixed in a few drops of water. Then he dipped in the brush and swept the grey over the canvas in precise lines, trying with every stroke to understand what this tension was, to give it a name, this tension that he had woken up with this first day when he had nothing to anticipate and no one to meet and wondering why he had bothered getting up because no one would notice if he did or not. The first layer done, he watched the paint dry then applied another. He repeated this a third time. After that he reached for the white and painstakingly filled the grey with circles. On the table beside him the clock ticked away as regular as metronome beats and as final as the drum at the execution ground. Eventually, he switched brushes and poured out the white._

_It will be six hours before he finishes, six hours without break or rest. When done he will look at his work once and turn away. Before the paint dries he will put it in a box where it will never see the light of day and lock it with silk. He will never see that painting again, but he will know it's there, locked away and as comprehensible as the stars._

_He won't care. The next morning he will get up like always. And the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that …_


	2. The Second

Over the next few weeks the chest lurked at the back of Hajime's mind, his thoughts continuously returning to the painting with its faceless faces and the one black face, and he would wonder what lay in the other cases. He would think the other people in his office to be larval entities that moved like a mass of maggots in the dark passing by oblivious to his existence. These were the days when he wanted to go home and stay there, perhaps forever, with his new wife making love in the new apartment and baking cookies in the kitchen. Nowadays his wife was asleep when he got home and the only thing that was in the kitchen was leftover dinner. They hardly spoke nowadays.

One night when his dinner had been cold and his wife oblivious, Hajime returned to the chest. In the moonlight he removed the false panel and pulled it out. He went through the cases, avoiding the one he had opened. On another case a black silk lock fell away. The case's leather felt clammy, like dead flesh, as he opened it and spread the canvas out to stare.

The painting was of a golden birdcage, painted with a child's preciseness. Inside the cage was the white silhouette of a bird frozen in flight, a puzzle in mid-air for it was dissected, wings and head placed like separate pieces from the main body as feathers battered themselves against the bars. White feathers and a golden cage, on a background of deepest red. The paint must have been oil based, because it glistened in the moonlight as if still moist. The red was painted on unevenly and thick, and was in some parts congealed and dripping. It looked like blood. 

With a cold shiver down his back, Hajime put the painting away and went back to bed. His sleep however, was plagued by dreams, the kind he had not had since he was a waking adolescent. In the morning he had woken late and his wife was making breakfast.

"You're finally up," she said crisply. She was putting on the kettle and wearing a lavender robe over her nightgown. "I hope you realise that you're going to be late for work."

Hajime stood in the door and gazed blankly at her. She ignored him and turned to get a mug out of the cupboard. She had to bend down to do so, and Hajime found his eyes tracing her curves.

"You'd probably want to run off soon, so I'll just make you coffee." She banged a mug onto the kitchen bench and looked for the sugar. "I take it that'll you'll be late tonight. Again. I'll leave you dinner in the fridge—"

Hajime crossed to the kitchen and grabbed her arm. Before she could shout at him in outrage, he pulled her into a fierce kiss completely unlike the ones they had shared when he had been a shy student courting his classmate. She made a startled sound against him, then pressed closer. He slipped her robe off her rounded shoulders and reached for the tie of her nightgown as she pushed a hand up under his shirt.

Hajime didn't go to work that day.

 

_He didn't know what on earth had driven him there, but it was a minor detail, something that had been quickly forgotten as the other had tried to protest – violently – first against the invasion of his home, and then against his invasion of his body. Or maybe it hadn't been an invasion, since the other had submitted to his first kiss and allowed his defences to be stripped away easily enough. He had tried to be gentle, he really had, but whatever had driven him to see the other ever since that first meeting in the wake of the building's destruction turned him into a beast, and the coupling had been fiercely passionate._

_Afterwards, the other had pleaded with him to stay. Of course, he didn't. He had left the other's home that he had so easily entered and fled to his. He had hauled out the chest and brushes and without even changing his clothes, still soiled with the other's scent, covered the new canvas in red. The red was slathered on in sloppy strokes and took most of the day to dry enough for him to apply the white and gold. There had been arousal when the bird was painted, and only when the silk was sealed and the painting locked from view did it go away._

_He would return to the other's home many times after that. There was something lacking in these subsequent visits. No matter how many times he tried he could never quite reach the intensity of that first visit again. Brilliant while it lasted, afterwards he was left distant and strangely hollow. The young man, overwhelmed after these sessions, could not help, if he even noticed anything past his own pain in the first place._

_Still, he always returned and tried again. The demands of the body never needed a reason._


	3. The Third

For the next few days the home was happy and relaxed, with a honeymoon atmosphere. No thoughts of work, of mortgages, of secrets behind walls. It couldn't last forever, though. When Hajime returned to work his wife had pouted but made him promise to come home early so that they could eat dinner together. He had tried, he really had, but the amount that he had to catch up with chained him to his desk until well past ten.

There was cold stew awaiting him that night. Same with the three nights after that. Unsatisfied and cold, Hajime returned to the chest, his secret.

One case was already open. This painting was stark, created with lines and no shading. Drawn on the white in childish black outlines were birds, similar if not the same to the dissected one in the cage. Their wing feathers had been drawn in exquisite detail, spread in flight as they headed upwards out of the canvas as if migrating to a better place. It was hard to tell how many there were, because over the canvas stretching from the top right-hand corner to the lower left was a dark red smear, as if someone had dipped his hand in paint and dragged it over the painting. It came off onto his fingers like moist dust. Hajime had the uneasy feeling that it might not have been paint. He washed his hands after hiding the painting away, but they still felt dirty.

Two days later, one of his wife's old friends invited them out to dinner. The food was decent, the service less so, and the company downright unpleasant. Hajime watched his wife and her friend laugh and reminisce about things and experiences he knew nothing about and wondered why his thoughts grew dark. By the end of the evening he was chewing his liver for dessert, and when his wife kissed her friend goodbye, he suddenly wondered if he cut the wings off a bird, would it still be a bird?

Once Hajime and his wife left the public space and returned home, Hajime tried to find out.

"Don't try to deny it, I was _there_ , I saw you with him!"

"For goodness sake, I haven't seen Takuma-kun since high school, we were just talking!"

"‘Just talking' my foot! You were _flirting!_ "

"He's an old friend, I gave him a friendly kiss goodbye! Good heaven, I had no idea that you could get so worked up over something so trivial!"

"You are my wife! _Mine!_ "

Smashing glass. "If you keep going on like this, I won't be!"

 

_The blinding had happened too far away for him to do anything, and besides, the one who had done it was untouchable. That by itself had been bad enough, but seeing that other untouchable, the one who had to choose, there at the bedside of his wounded one, compounded the tight burning in his chest that found no release until he brought out another new canvas._

_The birds had been difficult to do, but then there had been an interruption; he was forced to go out and finish a job that should have been finished last week. It had taken three hours, three hours of stalking. The job itself had been over in a minute. The feel of blood between his fingers as the lungs contracted around his fist was profoundly satisfying, but he was distracted, wanting to return to the painting. But he must have lost the momentum of the work, because when he finally sat down to continue he found that he couldn't. He stared at the birds flying away, the blood drying on his left hand, the paintbrush impotent in his other, and couldn't think of what to do. In the end he gave up in frustration and smeared his bloody hand over it all as if to wipe it away. The rules of the spell, however, set that whatever started had to be sealed away, no matter how distasteful or displeasing, for it is always instinct that is most true. He shoved the painting into its case and tied the seal-knot tight._

_Afterwards, he went to the young man's hospital room. He slid into the bed with him and took his hands, tracing the back of them with his tongue to reaffirm his presence there._

_The young man didn't wake up for him, but at least the burning in his chest was gone._


	4. The Fourth

Hajime was coming home later and later. It was a good excuse to avoid his wife. Ever since the fight they went out of their way to avoid each other. Who would have thought that only a few months ago they had been wed to live happily ever after?

Still the chest and its paintings held him in morbid fascination. Yet another of the silken locks had fallen apart and despite all feelings to the contrary, Hajime opened the case to see the picture inside. It made him gasp, and for a moment thought that there was blood. The painting was white save for a jagged spindle-shaped blotch of red in the middle like an open wound – or that secret cave of women, a thought that made Hajime flush. Hesitantly he touched the red and discovered that it was imprinted deep into the canvas in sharp, vicious strokes, as if the painter had wanted to stab his instrument right through the canvas. Failing in that, the painter instead had taken hold of the canvas … and ripped. The entirety of the top right hand corner had been torn away.

Hajime looked inside the case and inside the chest, but he couldn't find that missing piece. It was frustrating to not have the whole picture. He searched the storeroom, he searched the laundry, the kitchen, even getting a hammer to tap on the walls and listen for echoes. He didn't, and each failure fed the exasperation until at last he gave up and threw the hammer at the wall. It woke his wife.

"Darling," said his wife coolly, standing in the lounge entrance. "Just what are you doing?" 

He snarled. "Shut up and leave me alone!!"

"It's four in the morning and you're banging around? Have you been drinking?"

Hajime's face twisted angrily. He grabbed the first thing that came to hand – a cushion – and threw it his wife's head. It made her scream. "I said _shut up!_ " 

 

_They had been lying there in bed twined together. Actually, it was more like he had been lying there, and the other had been twined around him. He couldn't move much, and it had been rather stifling. He thought that the other was asleep. Until he started talking, that is._

_"I love you, you know," the young man beside him murmured drowsily, drunk on warmth and pleasure. "Always have."_

_He chuckled with an affection that was only in name. "No, you don't." He lifted a hand and began to rub the other's skin in lazy circles, teasing the edges of one nipple and watching the other's lips part. "You love every person in this world, yet none of them especially."_

_The unbandaged eye struggled to stay open. "But_ you _aren't them."_

_Instinctively his hand flashed upwards to grab the other's neck and shove him down, choking, into the bed. The young man's one visible eye grew wide as terror set in. He growled and pressed harder. Without warning, the young man smiled._

_Stop. He let go and jumped off the bed like a cat. He grabbed his clothes and pulled them on as the other sat up, staring after him with that one emerald green eye. If there was something about to be said he never found out, because he exited the bedroom with a loud slam._

_It was becoming easier to start, now. He put the canvas up and was mixing the red before he was actually thinking about it. It was a spatula he picked out this time, and having immersed it in the red he began to stab into the canvas with vicious strokes. It didn't take long before he threw the instrument to one side. Then he grabbed a brush and began to paint into the top right hand corner. An eye without colour …_

_He snarled. He took hold of the canvas and pulled. It was stiff and heavy, cutting into his palms. Still, somehow he managed to rip it, but it wasn't clean. It curved around to cut out that part he had begun, as if some monster had bitten it off. Pulling a cigarette lighter out of his pocket he set flame to that piece. The oil in the paint caught quickly. While that burned he slammed the latest work into a fresh black case and took extra care on the seal-knot._

_Once it was done, he breathed deeply. Calmly._


	5. The Fifth

By now Hajime was frightened. Frightened of himself, frightened of the Pandora's box he had opened sitting placidly in his home, and the things it made him do. He had always been the shy one, the introverted one, and now – what? He wanted to be rid of the chest, but he couldn't think of how. Perhaps he could sell it to an art dealer, or maybe someone who collected antiques, someone who could study it and thus render it harmless. For some reason he never got around to finding someone like that. There was too much for him to do, at work, at home, not that home was very pleasant at the moment. Hajime and his wife were openly avoiding each other now, and for once Hajime was glad of the work that kept him late. And still he returned to the chest, hyptonised like a moth to the flame by the strange, unsettling story it held.

When Hajime brought himself to look at the next chapter, he almost wished he hadn't. The canvas was completely black, like a window to the depths of space, and heavy. It was featureless except for one thing: in the lower left-hand corner, reaching desperately up from the limits of the canvas, was a hand. The hand was gaunt, almost skeletal, reminding Hajime of those photos he had seen once of bodies in concentration camps, and so strained and taut he could see every bone and muscle. Its skin was melting away, dripping off the bones that were no longer abstract, but frightening real. There was nothing for it to grasp, nothing to reach for, just darkness, yet it still stretched desperately upwards, as if its owner had been buried alive and was trying to claw free of suffocating earth.

Hajime's hands were trembling as he put the painting away. They were trembling so much it took him four tries to fit it in properly, and three to angle the chest correctly so that it would slide into its wall cavity. When the chest was finally put away Hajime stared at the false panel with wide, wide eyes, and wondered whether plaster or concrete would be better. The chest simply sat there like a benign tumor, daring him to seal it away forever – or until Hajime couldn't bear the suspense of not knowing what was in the last few cases, and broke the wall open again.

They remained in this contest of wills for a long time, well into the night until the first pale streaks of dawn began to filter in the window. Hajime lost. His wife found him huddled pathetically in the farthest corner of the room, shivering as if all the hands of the dead were trailing down his back. When she approached him – eventually – he cringed away like a frightened child. He buried his head in his arms and didn't see the pain that spread over her face like a bruise, and neither did he see her as she left him and fled for the phone.

 

_How had he found him? He had opened his door to the hesitant knock to find the other gazing at him longingly from his own doorstep. It had taken a second for that discordance to register on his mind. Once it did, it snapped._

_He grabbed the other by the front of his shirt, yanking him inside with all the viciousness of a striking snake. Then he pinned him against the wall. "What are you doing here," he hissed._

_The young man stared at him, the unbandaged green eye wide. "I – I wanted to see you."_

_His hand tightened so that the shirt's collar cut into the other's throat. "You don't come here. I go to _you._ "_

_"Why? Why are you allowed to drop in on me any time, but I'm not allowed to do the same? What difference does it make?" He tried to reach up, tried to touch his face. It was an easy matter to entrap that wrist and cuff it against the wall with his other hand, not so different to what he had done that first night together. The young man looked at him with almost delirious delight. "It doesn't make any difference, does it, Seishirou-san."_

_There was silence, and there was acid, spreading where they touched and eating away at rationality and pride. Both of them were breathing hard in a familiar rhythm. He could feel the other's heart palpitating in time with his pulse. Anticipating._

_The second stretched out into a year. Finally, he leaned closer supposedly for a kiss. The young man turned his face upwards. Then he stopped, millimetres from the other's ear._

_"Pets should know their place."_

_Freeze. He let the moment fragment and shatter, watching as the shards slashed the young man's face. When the green eye began to bleed tears, he let a smile that wasn't a smile grow. Taking hold of the young man's arm, he opened the front door and pushed. The young man stumbled out into the hall, limp with hurt like a marionette with its strings cut._

_He didn't look back as he closed the door. Once it was locked, the smile disappeared._

_For a long time he stood there leaning against the door. He heard footsteps, first slow then running away. His breathing hadn't slowed yet. Neither had his pulse. With sudden decision he stormed to the back room and pulled out the chest. He took all the cases out and unlocked them, laying out their contents to see them all at once._

_There, on the floor, they all stared back at him. White circles mixed with scattered feathers, birds drowning in a splash of blood, everything blended together into one whirlpool of paint and incomprehension that swirled him around until he was dizzy from vertigo. He resisted an urge to be physically sick. Somehow he managed to fumble the paintings back into their ebony coffins and shut them tight. The silken seals, however, needed more time and attention, and he wove them over and over again until the ritual was familiar in his mind and that thing in his chest was cool again. It refused to stop racing, though. The chest had come to him empty. Already in just his one life, it contained four._

_A blank piece of canvas lay nearby. Suddenly he scooped it up and put it on the stand, reaching with his other hand for the largest brush. He dipped it into the pot of black and began to paint the canvas with night, one layer, two layers, three … with each one he tried to exorcise the tension, the icy coldness, the impulse to run somewhere, anywhere, away …_

_He put a lot of effort into painting that hand. He had thought about it very carefully, oh yes he had. Yet he had kept making mistakes, mistakes corrected easily enough by a black stroke or three that he had to wait to dry before trying again while outside the night grew older and older. He remembered the acid when they had touched and put that in too, painting ragged skin that dripped off the bones as the hand reached hopelessly upwards like a weed towards the sun._

_It was past midnight when he was at last satisfied. He put the painting away and locked the case carefully, tying the silk tight. Then he went to the other's apartment. He wasn't welcomed – but he wasn't told to leave, either._

_The young man didn't try to go to his home again, instead waiting each night to be visited. He went readily enough, drinking the young man up as a thirsty man drinks water, and the paintings were never seen again; they remained locked away forever, out of sight, out of mind._

_Maybe he would even forget they existed in the first place._


	6. The Sixth

No doubt his wife thought he was going mad. Hajime certainly believed he was. The doctor that came by couldn't find anything wrong with him and in the end diagnosed Hajime with nothing more than exhaustion and stress with a recommendation to stay at home to rest. Hajime did try once to protest that he couldn't afford to take time off work, but his wife had overridden that with such finality that he could do nothing more than meekly agree and grit his teeth at being treated like a child.

But there were soon other things for him to worry about. Hajime would find himself waking up in the middle of the night shaking, not knowing who he was or why he was there. Or he would wake up, skin damp with sweat, hungry and restless, then prowl the house like a caged animal. There were not-infrequent periods of white-hot, irrational anger where the slightest thing could spark a temper tantrum, and nights when he would lie in bed and stare at the ceiling feeling trapped, locked in a cell that was slowly filling with thick paint. It was far more preferable to sleep. He kept having nightmares, strange, horrifying things beyond his comprehension that he could never remember in their entirety when he jerked awake, only flashes, flashes of red, black and white, flashes of unreal streets in dark cities, of bleeding birds and broken mirrors that never reflected his face truly but twisted it into something unrecognisable, and more sinister things that slipped away when he tried to reach for them. There was never enough for him to put together properly, just fragments that taunted and frightened leaving him filled with dread and the horrible sensation of slipping away as if he were bleeding to death.

He wanted his wife like never before, but she stayed well away from him. Yet she didn't dare leave him alone in the house by himself, either. Hajime could tell she didn't want to stay in his presence, and that made the fits worse. Suspicious every time she went out, sometimes he wanted to throttle her, to put his hands around her throat and squeeze that look in her eyes away into blankness. These were the times when he would lock himself in the bathroom and gaze, terrified, at the face gazing back at him in the mirror.

And still Hajime thought about the box of paintings. Like a demon it whispered to him, played to his curiosity and desire to know. He couldn't forget it. He couldn't put it out of his thoughts; like a drug he knew it was bad for him yet he couldn't help but want to see more. It didn't take long for him to wilt. There really wasn't anything else he could do. He crept out of bed in the depths of the night, removing the panel with raw fingertips from when he had clawed at the walls one claustrophobic moment. The chest's lacquer felt oily. There was one case open.

Standing, Hajime lifted the case out of the chest. His hands were feverish, so he dropped it. The case burst open and spewed its contents out at his feet. The last painting lay face-down, a waiting tarot card to tell his fate. One more, just one more. There were no more cases locked with silk in the chest, only the other ones he had desecrated and there was no way that he was looking at those again.

One more. Just one more …

 Hajime turned it over. A face stared up at him. A boy. No more than twelve years old, the boy arched his neck back as he stared blankly up at the unearthly red sky streaked with sunset-purple clouds, soft dark hair fanning about his face in the water he was lying in. His skin was pale – too pale. The blue-white pallor of the drowned almost glowed in the frozen moment where life slips away. He was being dragged down into the water by hands, gloved hands of washed-out green that caressed the boy's face and hair, exploring beneath the collar of the black shirt he wore as if, siren-like, they would sooth away the tension as they pulled him into a watery grave. What moonlight there was soaked into the aquatic colours accentuating shadows. The picture was so real in that frightening way of dreams and the washed-out gold of the boy's eyes was so empty …

 

 

_Was there something different? Another cigarette smoked, another man dead, another day gone …no, nothing was different. Then why did he feel as if sand was slipping out from between his fingers?_

_He didn't know. But maybe that other person would._

_It wasn't terribly late when he went to the other's apartment. The bridge had been packed with cars of people going home or going out. Therefore, when he had arrived at an empty apartment he hadn't been particularly affected. So he waited._

_Hours passed. No one came home. The box of cigarettes ran low._

_At last he gave up. Too irritated to maintain his habitual smile he made his way back to his own apartment, trying to analyse this sensation of weightlessness, as if someone had taken the second of countdown after one and stretched it into one agonizing moment of waiting,_ waiting _…_

_Something was wrong when he got home. The protective wards were tripped. No, only the first one was tripped. The rest were unraveled. His eyes narrowed. There were very people who could circumvent his spells, and only one of them who would go to so much trouble. It was a decidedly pleasant thought._

_He admitted his pulse quickened as he went inside. There was someone waiting for him, curled on the couch in a fitful doze. He watched the young man breathe for a few moments, then grabbed his wrist and threw him onto the floor in a painful wake-up call, forcing him to his knees and twisting his arm behind his back._

_"What did I say about coming here?" he asked with deceptive calmness._

_He could feel the other trembling beneath the pressure, and imagined the emerald eye wide. "I know what you said."_

_"Then why are you here?"_

_"Please." With an effort the young man tried to twist around to look at him. He increased his hold on the arm and the young man bit his lip in pain. "Please. Let me go."_

_"And why should I do that, Subaru-kun?"_

_"Because—" The other took a deep breath. "Because I'm asking you to. Please."_

_It would have been amusing to see what would happen if he refused. For some reason he let go. The young man fell forward catching himself on his hands and stayed there while he went to put his coat away, keeping one eye on his unexpected visitor. "How did you get in?"_

_He sensed the other get up. "You don't give me enough credit, Seishirou-san." A true statement; it was easy to forget when the other submitted to him so prettily that the young man had magic enough to equal him. He looked up to find the other watching him like a shy, frightened child. "I made you dinner."_

_"Oh?" He glanced towards the table. Two burnt out candle stubs stood watch over a simple meal for two. Warily he turned on the dining area light and, picking up a fork, sampled a little fish._

_"Hm. Not bad."_

_"I'm sorry if it's cold. You came back late."_

_"Such a thoughtful wife, aren't you." A faint blush diffused over the young man's face. Calmly, still smiling, he picked up the plate of food. He moved slowly so that the other couldn't help but watch every move and lifted the plate up high, balancing the fine china on the flat of his palm. Then he tipped his hand._

_The shattering of the plate matched the other's expression perfectly._

_"I'll ask you again, Subaru-kun," he said softly. "Why are you here?" The other didn't respond, staring at the mess on the floor. "Answer me."_

_The other man lifted his face as if carrying a heavy weight. "I want to stay here tonight. Just tonight. Please."_

_"You're using the word ‘please' a lot tonight, Subaru-kun. What makes you think that I'm going to say yes?"_

_The green eye looked at him, dark and unflinching. "Please."_

_Silence. Why did borrowed time always feel so much more acute? He shrugged, trying to shake off the feeling of uneasiness as he went into the bedroom to take off his jacket._

_"Suit yourself."_

_He sensed the other follow him, silent and subdued. The moment he closed the door the young man pressed up against his body. He kissed him, wondering why he welcomed the other's presence like a condemned's last glass of wine, if there was a desperate edge to the embrace, and wondered, as he closed his eyes, why that fact disturbed him more than anything else had ever before …_

 

 

Hajime began to cry.

 

 

_He jerked awake, poised to fight. Last night he had gone to sleep with an arm twined around his waist. It wasn't there any more. The space beside him on the bed was empty._

_For a moment he stared. Then he got up. He didn't bother to dress as he exited the bedroom into the main area of the apartment. It too, was empty. Even the floor beside the table was wiped clean. There was nothing._

_Something broke. It hurt._

_His first thought was that he was being attacked, that the pain came from an outside source. He snarled and lashed out magically, smashing all the glassware in the bedroom from the lamps to the mirrors. Shards of glass slashed his skin but he ignored that, sending out a seeking for his opponent. There was no one, only himself._

_The hurt came from within himself._

_He didn't like it. He wanted to be rid of it. Closing his eyes he called upon the magic, spinning it to heal. The cuts on his body closed and disappeared easily enough, but that other hurt, the one inside of desolation and icy water, was never touched._

_So cold._

_What he did next he didn't know. Maybe he blacked out. The significance of what he was doing wasn't realised until he had the canvas prepared. It was if a switch had turned over in his mind and he was working in a dream. He divided the canvas into quadrants, precise and deliberate, then picked up a pencil. He sketched in a face, deathly blank, then hands, sensuous in silk and calling up memories of being touched._

_Arch your head back. He refused to think about it too carefully, and concentrated on the detail. It kept him from seeing the whole picture. It became his entire focus, almost like a meditation where food and rest did not matter. Hours slipped by without him noticing before the outline was done to his complete satisfaction and he would let himself touch the paint. White first, with a touch of ice—_

 

moonlight on skin

 

— _grey, for shadows and shading—_

 

streets of silent faces

 

— _pale blue water—_

 

rain

 

— _silk of faded green—_

 

eyes in the dark

 

— _gold, washed-out by time—_

 

a warm smile

 

— _red sky—_

 

blood

 

— _clouds of deepest violet_ —

 

uncertainty

 

— _black, coal black, ebony black—_

 

dark silence of words unspoken, of hurt

 

— _layer by layer he built it up, trapping the pain in paint. His head felt light, feverish, but he refused to pause for rest in fear that once he had stopped he would never start again. Even when night fell he didn't stop to turn on a light, working instead by the glow of the city and the moon. He barely noticed dawn creeping, or the sounds as the city woke and went about its day. The outside world ceased to exist until finally, when the sun was sinking once again, he finished._

_The brush hung limp in his hand. He felt strangely detached. Disorientated. Stumbling a little he angled the picture to catch the red glow of sunset, and took a step back to see the dreaded completed work. A boy drowning …_

_It was, he decided, at once both his best and worst effort. He shuddered. Quickly the painting was put away and sealed with silk. Then he went to take a shower. Afterwards he slept, exhausted and alone._

_Alone._

_He woke early the next morning, rested and calm. Quietly he dressed himself as usual. He took an hour or two to clean the apartment and the mess of paint. He put the chest in its cavity and placed the false panel carefully in front of it, casting an illusion to hide it from discovery. That done, he left the apartment, locked the door, and headed for the bridge._

_He never looked back. Neither did he ever return home._


	7. The Last

Kneeling beside the open chest with his arms wrapped around his head, Hajime was little more than a sobbing, trembling wreck. His world had narrowed to darkness and flashes of painful red behind his eyelids that stabbed into him like glass shards with the background of uncontrollable weeping in his ears. The one weeping was himself as he tried to purge himself of every regret and guilty weight that would pull him down towards oblivion. He didn't notice as a figure appeared in the doorway, didn't feel the eyes, didn't notice that person bite her lip then hesitantly come forward to kneel beside him.

The touch of a hand against his shoulder was like a stab in the heart. Hajime froze, whipping his head around to stare with wild eyes. His wife stared at him in fright. When he realised who it was, Hajime gave little cry then threw his arms around her.

"I'm sorry!" Desperately he buried his face in her shoulder. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Toru-san, please, don't leave me, don't leave me alone, I'm so sorry …"

He sobbed out his pleas and apologies the way a dying man begs for water. It felt as if he were clutching a statue, his wife was so still. After a very long time he sensed her rest her arms on his back. There was another hesitation, then almost apprehensively, they drew close and wrapped around him.

"… please, forgive me …"

A little sigh against his skin like a breath of wind as his wife softened. The strain of the recent weeks too raw to touch but still, there was relief. Hajime shuddered with the sheer force of it as his wife, for the first time in weeks, spoke quietly to him.

"Tell me what's wrong."

Slowly, his voice trembling, Hajime told her. He told her about the chest, the paintings he had uncovered and kept secret, and how they had affected him. He told her everything, the bank loan, the secrets, the anger, the fear, despair and more, things he was sure would make her despise him and make her leave.

When he was finally finished, she sat very still. Then she looked at the chest.

"Don't!" cried Hajime as his wife went to the chest. She didn't listen to him, kneeling down and lifting out the cases. "Don't look at them!"

Ignoring his plea she opened the cases. As the paintings were brought into the light again Hajime threw his arms over his eyes as if the very sight of them hurt him. His wife, back towards him, didn't see, and one by one, laid the paintings out before her; First, Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth, all in order of their opening beside the Sixth. She examined them for a very long time.

"Strange," she murmured. She ran her hand over the uneven red of the Second. "Why are these here?"

"Please," Hajime croaked. "Put them away."

She traced the outlines of the birds of the Third with her fingers. "I wonder who painted these. Do you think we should contact the previous owner and ask if they belong to him?"

"I don't care! Just please, don't look at them!"

"Don't be silly. Look, there's nothing wrong. Are there any more?"

Hajime stayed well away from the chest as if it were a beast that would consume him. He refused to look up as his wife reached into the mouth of the chest, searching for the rest of its contents. He heard the scrape of her fingernails against the stiff velvet interior and the rubbing of leather as she lifted out the rest of empty cases. He heard something shift.

"Hajime. There's something here."

Hajime looked up warily. Curiosity was their common trait. "What?"

His wife shook the case gently and there was a muffled sound. "There's another one."

"Put it away." Hajime unconsciously drew away from the case, repulsed. "I don't want to see anymore."

Abruptly his wife turned to look at him, their eyes meeting directly for what felt like the first time. "I want to know what happened to you. If I know, I can understand. And if I understand …" She trailed off, leaving Hajime to wonder what she wanted to say.

Hajime stared at her. He didn't say anything as his wife located the catch. There was no black silk tying it. His wife opened the case and tipped out the contents. Hajime could tell immediately by the size and shape that it was another painting, but it was wrapped in black velvet.

Carefully, his wife put it on the floor and pulled the velvet away. Despite his misgivings, Hajime couldn't help but creep forward to look.

The picture was pale, without outlines, as if the scene was bathed in too much sunlight. Touches of shadow hinted at lines of body and dark hair, giving the impression of someone lying on their right side, hands curled beside the face like a child in sleep. The abundance of light blurred all detail except one. It was a single eye, open but unseeing at the moment where sleep has been shaken off. With all the naïveté of a just-opened flower, it was painted almost tenderly. Gently. It was a soft picture, completely at odds with the others as if by another artist entirely. Against the pastel colours of skin and palest rose, Hajime found the emerald green of the eye starkly entrancing.

"Beautiful," breathed his wife. She pulled the velvet wrapping further away. Something fell out. A piece of paper. She read it then held the paper out to her husband. "Hey. Look."

Reluctantly Hajime turned away from the painting and took the paper. There was no name, only three lines. It asked that should the chest and paintings be found, for the finder to take care of them. It asked the finder to send them to an address in Kyoto.

That was it. Hajime frowned. The note was almost impersonally short, the handwriting neatly printed without giving any hint as to the writer. At least, he assumed the writer and the artist was one and the same, but who was he to judge?

"Should we send this off?" asked his wife, gesturing to the cases and paintings spread around them. "These obviously belong to someone. And you don't want them in the house."

Hajime read the note again, then looked at the paintings lying on the floor. He bit back the panic that rose in his throat at the sight of them, swallowing. He wanted nothing more than to get rid of them as fast as possible, to get back to his own life instead of whoever else's life he had unwittingly unleashed.

Then again, he also wanted to know.


	8. Truth

It was several weeks before they left. Hajime wanted to leave immediately, but his wife had refused to go until he proved himself ready, justifying her decision by saying that since the paintings had been hidden away for years already, then what would a little longer matter? There wasn't any question in Hajime's mind of leaving her behind and going himself, and so he had reluctantly agreed.

It was not an easy process. The nightmares and moments of madness still terrorised him daily. Now, however, he found something to hold onto. One night Hajime fought his way free of clawing hands that pulled him down. He jerked wildly awake to find the hands were real. His wife held him back when he would throw himself away and though her face grew shadowed when he railed at her, she refused to let go. When he had worn himself out to the point of exhaustion she sat with him, holding him like a child until he fell asleep. It was the first time in a long time, he told her later, that he had slept peacefully.

Some time after that night he felt ready to face the outside world. He assisted his wife with the shopping and marvelled at the faces and lives around him. It helped keep the paintings from his thoughts. After a little while it grew easier to think about other things. One morning after brushing his teeth Hajime smiled to check if he was done satisfactorily and realised he liked what he saw. He kept the smile when he went to the kitchen and gave his wife a kiss with it. That was the day the two of them began to make travel arrangements.

 The night before leaving Hajime suffered a nightmare of drowning in blood. Neither he nor Toru had pretended that the path to recovery would be easy.

On the morning of departure, Hajime was given no choice but to face the chest. His wife had put everything back inside but Hajime didn't need to see the paintings to think about them. He didn't want to touch it. In the end he asked a passing neighbour to carry the chest into the taxi, and when he and Toru arrived at the station, requested an attendant to carry it onto the train.

The trip to Kyoto was a tense one. If it weren't for the chest sitting in the carriage with them, a mute reminder of wounds still healing, they could pretend they were going away for the weekend. They didn't talk much. At their destination they sent their few pieces of personal luggage on to the small hotel they had arranged for, then found a taxi driver who manoeuvred the chest into the backseat. Toru asked the driver if he knew the address on the paper.

"This place?" The driver looked at them, startled. "It's the Sumeragi estate."

Hajime and his wife looked at each other. "Estate?"

"Yeah. Don't get a fare going there very often. What are you going there for? It's a private residence, not a tourist destination."

Hajime took the front passenger seat as his wife climbed into the back beside the chest. "We're delivering something."

It was a long car ride. The driver filled the minutes of the trip with descriptions of tourist sites they didn't plan to see to pass the journey. Once at the address given the driver helped them unload the chest, received his payment, then drove off leaving Hajime and his wife staring at the formal gates in front of them and the traditional grounds beyond. There was an intercom set into the wall which Hajime pressed, explaining his identity and business to the cool voice that answered as best as possible. It must have worked, for the gates opened. A man appeared to guide them; seeing the chest he called two servants to carry it. Wondering what they were getting into, Hajime and his wife followed him into the main house where they were led into an elegantly furnished sitting room and told to wait. Intimidated by their surroundings, they obeyed. The servants put the chest down and left.

They waited several minutes. Eventually the door slid open and a servant came in, followed by a young woman about Hajime's age.

"Lady Reiko Sumeragi," the servant announced.

Hajime and his wife bowed. The young woman bowed as well, though not as deep as they. She was dressed simply in black trousers and a fitting pale yellow jumper. Her black hair was tied back, and she gazed at her visitors with light green eyes and a friendly smile.

"Welcome. Who am I speaking to?"

Hajime coughed. "I am Hajime Negi, and this is my wife Toru. We …" He glanced at his wife. "We found something in our home. We didn't know what it was, but we opened it and there was a note asking us to bring it here."

"My husband oversimplifies the matter," Toru interjected. "He found this chest hidden in our apartment with paintings in it. After looking at them he began to act strangely as if he were going mad."

Reiko lifted an eyebrow. "And you're sure whatever you found is the reason?"

"My husband believes so, yes. Personally I don't know what to think, but I found a reference inside to your home and I am hoping that by coming here you could explain it."

"Let me see." Reiko got up and went over to the chest. She looked at it carefully, then opened it. Toru had carefully packed everything to Hajime's instructions, leaving only the silken locks undone; those she hadn't been able to replicate. Reiko examined everything closely, then took out the cases one by one. She brought out each of the pictures and laid them out before her. Hajime averted his eyes, Toru watched intently.

Reiko closed her eyes and held her hand above each of the paintings for a moment or two. "There is magic here," she said at last, "but I'm not familiar with it."

Hajime and his wife blinked. "Magic?" asked Toru in disbelief.

"Yes. My family are _onmyouji_ , mediums of traditional spiritual magic." Reiko smiled a little. "Don't worry, it's not common public knowledge. But yes, whatever these are they have the stain of magic, but it is very old. Were there seals on the clasps? Something that held it closed?"

Hajime looked at his wife. "There was silk, black silk tied in some kind of knot …"

"That's it. There were sealing spells on each of these, spells set a long time ago but since they haven't been renewed, they've faded. By opening the cases you must have released whatever was sealed away, Negi-san, and been struck by the full brunt of it."

"Full brunt of what? What _are_ these paintings?"

"These paintings are just that – paintings. A picture on canvas like any other, but they have another dimension to them. These paintings give corporeal shape to something that does not lend itself to tangible form, so that it can be dealt with. As a rough analogy think of say, a prison: you can't lock away Evil itself, but you can lock away a criminal as a way of dealing with its manifestation."

"So then, these paintings are evil?" asked Hajime, glancing at them in revulsion.

"I don't think so. Whatever these paintings are, they weren't there to destroy or harm anybody's lives. It was just bad luck that you happened upon them right at the time when the concealment and sealing spells were fading. From what you tell me, however, it doesn't sound like whatever was contained in these paintings faded at all, more like whatever was held in them remained dormant until you, Hajime-san, inadvertently undid the seals."

"Does this mean … whatever it is could return?" asked Toru anxiously.

"Possible, but extremely unlikely. Exorcised ghosts do not return to haunt once freed. And already your husband seems to have recovered." Reiko closed her eyes, concentrating on the paintings again. "I can't sense anything in this Last painting, but. That's all I can tell you – I don't know what was sealed away, or why you would be asked to send it here."

"Oh." Hajime was disappointed, a sentiment his wife shared.

Seeing their faces, Reiko smiled again. "Don't worry. You've come too far for me to turn you away now." She got up and went to the door. A servant must have been waiting just outside. "Where is my uncle?" she asked the servant.

"In the usual room, Lady Reiko."

"Thank you. Fetch two men here then tell my uncle that I'm bringing him something I'd like him to see." The servant bowed and obeyed. Reiko gestured for Hajime and his wife to get up. "I'm sure my uncle will be able to tell you more than I. Follow me."

Hajime and his wife rose to their feet as two servants came inside and lifted the chest. "Your uncle?" asked Toru.

"My uncle is the thirteenth clan head and the premier onmyouji of this age. I'm training to be his successor," explained Reiko.

Hajime and his wife felt very apprehensive as they followed the young woman through the large house, the servants trailing behind with the chest. Eventually they came to a large screen door. Sunlight filtered through the paper. Without hesitation Reiko opened it and went inside. Nervously Hajime and his wife followed. It was a large room, spacious and minimally furnished. The screen doors on the other side were open with a view over a garden. There was someone looking.

"Uncle," called Reiko softly. "Uncle, I'm here."

The person sitting by the window turned around. He was an old man yet he didn't seem old at all. True, his hair was white but while his finely-boned face was certainly not young it showed little evidence of time either. Ageless, as if for him the years had frozen in ice. Dressed all in white, he seemed almost a ghost from the past. His eyes, however, were peculiarly striking. As the man looked up Hajime saw that his right eye was gold in colour, while the left was emerald green.

Hajime stared. The green eye was the same as the one in the Last.

The man gazed at them calmly. Reiko ignored all ceremony and kissed him on the cheek. "Hello, Uncle. This is Hajime Negi and his wife, Toru. Negi-san, this is Subaru Sumeragi, the thirteenth clan head, my teacher."

Hajime found himself at loss for words. There was something strangely … not familiar, but something recognisable about this man. It was unsettling. "It's an honour to meet you, Sumeragi-sama," he said at last.

Sumeragi inclined his head. "Please, be at ease," he said. His voice was low and soft. Controlled, like his eyes. "Reiko-san sent word that you have something for me to see."

Flustered, Hajime looked around. Reiko was quiet, sitting beside her uncle like a waiting student. The menservants had placed the chest between him and his wife then disappeared. "Ah, yes. My wife and I … I mean, I found this in my apartment when I was renovating. I looked inside, and something happened …" He hesitated, then brought the chest closer to the older man. "I'm sorry, Sumeragi-sama, my wife and I did not wish to trouble you—"

Sumeragi lifted a hand, quieting him. "There is no need to apologise. Now, please explain to me what happened to you."

Slowly, with frequent additions by his wife, Hajime told him. He left out nothing of his gradual descent into madness, and as he progressed the face of the thirteenth Sumeragi head grew shadowed.

"You believe that these paintings you found had an evil effect on you?" Hajime nodded. The Sumeragi thought for a moment, then motioned for him to come closer. "Give me your hand, Negi-san."

More than a little apprehensive, Hajime obeyed. The Sumeragi reached out and took his hand. Hajime noticed that the Sumeragi's own hands were slim, like that of a woman or musician. He tensed, wondering what was going to happen, and was surprised when his hand was released a moment later and the older man's eyes opened. "I can find no magical taint on you. There is turmoil, yes, and disturbance, but it is emotional. It may be an _effect_ of a spell, but not a spell itself." The Sumeragi glanced at the chest. "I think it's time that I look at these paintings."

Hajime nodded and opened the chest, not without some small measure of unease. He brought out the First painting and, taking it out of its coffin, laid it on the floor. The thirteenth Sumeragi head examined the picture for several long moments, his face expressionless. Hajime shifted uncomfortably. Looking at the picture again he could almost hear the silent scream of the black face in his mind.

Without looking up, Sumeragi spoke. "Next."

Obediently, Hajime brought out the Second. The cage holding its dissected bird made his skin crawl. He laid it before the Sumeragi, who frowned a little. Then he closed his eyes, and held one hand above it as Reiko had just earlier.

He stiffened.

Hajime looked from the man to the painting to his wife and back, startled. Sumeragi's eyes flew wide open and he glanced at his hand. It was trembling. Quickly he drew his hand back and turned that unsettling mismatched gaze onto Hajime with all the intensity of a fever. "Where did you get these," he demanded.

Hajime jumped. Gone was the calm dignity of before, the Sumeragi's voice was almost sharp. "I – I found it hidden behind the wall while I was renovating—"

"No," Sumeragi cut him off abruptly. "Your address. Where do you live."

Taken aback by the burning that had awoken in those mismatched eyes, Hajime told him. The moment he did, what colour there had been in the Sumeragi's face drained away.

"Uncle?" asked Reiko worriedly. He didn't seem to hear her, but when she made as if to touch him he waved her away and fixed Hajime with a look.

"Show me the next one."

Hajime didn't dare disobey. He brought out the rest in slow succession, trying not to look at them. Still, however, he felt the distant muffled emotion contained in each.

The blood-smeared birds of the Third.

The torn Fourth with its splash of angry red.

The Fifth, frighteningly dark.

No one spoke. It was all done in complete silence. There were no more outbursts from the Sumeragi. Instead, he stared intently at each as they were revealed as if to burn the pictures into his mind. Only his hands betrayed him. They were shaking.

When Hajime brought out the Sixth, the Sumeragi bit his lip. Hajime respectfully waited as the man slowly reached out to touch the painting. He watched as the thirteenth head of the Sumeragi ran slim fingers over the outlines of the boy's blank face and the gloved hands drawing him down. Hajime exchanged a glance at Reiko, whose face was a mixture of questioning and worry.

Finally, the Sumeragi sat back. He laid his hands in his lap, rubbing the back of one with half-closed eyes. "Are there any more?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, Sumeragi-sama," said Toru. Hesitantly she reached into the chest and brought out the Last. "One more."

"Open it."

She did. She drew out the canvas wrapped in velvet and laid it on the floor. Sumeragi didn't look up as she unfolded the velvet before him. Hajime glanced at the picture, the hazy face side-profiled with the open eye, comparing it to the man sitting. True, one had dark hair and one had white, but the eye … they were one and the same. Surely it was the Sumeragi who was the subject of this picture?

Toru drew back. Only then did the Sumeragi inhale deeply as if steeling himself, and open his eyes to look. He stared for a moment, but then he frowned a little. Half-closing his eyes the Sumeragi touched the painting with his fingertips, tracing the lines there as if feeling for something. His face grew pained. Suddenly he fixed Hajime in an accusing gaze. "This painting, what did you do to it? Why is it empty?"

Hajime blinked, taken aback. "Empty? I don't understand, what do you mean, 'empty'?"

"There's nothing in it." The Sumeragi gestured to all the other paintings surrounding him, his words growing desperate. "These ones, they all held something, I can sense the remains of magic in them, but this one, this Last, there is nothing – I can't feel anything from it, I _need_ to know what this Last is _what did you do!_ "

The frantic shout stunned Hajime into silence. "My husband didn't do anything, Sumeragi-sama," said Toru shakily. "He wasn't even the one who opened it. I did." Immediately those strange eyes turned to her. Toru faltered, but kept going. "My husband was in no shape to look at any more, he was frightened by what he was finding. I opened the Last."

"When you opened it, what did you feel?" demanded Sumeragi.

"Nothing," Toru admitted. "All I thought was that the painting was very beautiful."

"You were the one who untied the seal, and you felt nothing?"

Toru looked confused. "Seal? There wasn't any seal."

The Sumeragi stared at her. "You mean to say that there was nothing that held the case for this Last closed like the others?" he asked very quietly.

"No, Sumeragi-sama. There wasn't."

Silence. The man in white did not move. "The Last … was not sealed away …" he said slowly, more to himself than to anyone else. His gaze drew back to the painting in question, studying the plays of shadow, the soft luminosity as if the artist had painted with liquid light, and the emerald green eye. He seemed to stop breathing.

"Uncle." Reiko's voice was uneasy. "Uncle, are you all right? What's wrong?"

There was no answer. Only the ageless man staring, sitting so still he might have been a statue of snow. He didn't touch the picture, but Hajime noted that his hands were clenched so tightly the skin tone nearly matched his robes. He lifted one hand to the right side of his face as if to cover one eye, then, as if suddenly remembering his company, stopped. The Sumeragi glanced at each of them. His eyes, Hajime realised suddenly, were very bright. Emerald and molten gold … there was something almost hypnotizing about them, like sunlight on a forest pool, bright and cool and cleansing all at once …

Hajime blinked, his vision clearing to reveal the ceiling. There were people around him, he realised, and one of them was shouting his name.

"Hajime-san!" Toru's face moved into his sight. Her sweet face was frightened. "Hajime!"

"Negi-san." Another voice, more controlled but no less worried. "Negi-san, what's wrong?"

It seemed an eternity that he lay there, waiting for the sudden giddiness to pass. The floor was cool beneath him, he could hear the footsteps of people nearby like muted drums, or someone's heartbeat. A small hand had wound into his and he clenched it tightly as he breathed deeply, the first clean breath he had had for so long.

Slowly, he sat up.

"I'm all right," Hajime said quietly. "I'm all right." Toru didn't look convinced, and he freed his hand from hers to wind his arm about her waist. He drew her close and breathed in the soft smell from her hair. "I'm all right."

Toru didn't speak; her responding embrace was answer enough. Reiko watched them, relief evident on her face. "What happened?" she demanded.

Hajime tried to remember. "I don't know. One moment I was sitting there, the next thing I knew I was lying down. But I feel … clean."

Reiko frowned, reaching forward to touch one finger to his forehead and her eyes grew distant for a moment. "There's nothing there." She moved back and stared. "The turmoil is gone. It's as if you have been exorcised, but there was no possessing spirit so how—? Uncle?" Reiko turned. "… Uncle?

Hajime loosened his embrace on his wife, looking around, and stopped. The thirteenth head of the Sumeragi seemed not to have noticed Hajime's collapse. He knelt with one fist pressed over the Last, the other covering his eyes. He was shaking uncontrollably, Hajime noticed uneasily, a figure in white like a snow sculpture being eroded by the wind that could speak, whispers, soft whispers that were not meant to be heard, but they were, even if they were not understood.

"… it's been so long, so long I've endured … why couldn't you tell me, why did you have to come back like this after it's all over …"

Reiko ran to him. "Uncle!" Kneeling down she wrapped her arms around him, trying to get him to look at her. "What's wrong, what's the mat—" She broke off as she inadvertently pulled the old man's hand from his face. It was damp.

"Uncle." Gently she grasped his hand. "Uncle Subaru, what's wrong?"

He glanced at her as if only just noticing her presence. He stared. Then, as if all his years had suddenly come crashing down on him, the Sumeragi bowed his head.

"Leave me."

Hajime glanced at his wife. Toru's posture was already leaning towards the door. For a moment Hajime hesitated, but then he thought back to everything he had suffered without knowing why. "Sumeragi-sama," he began respectfully. "My wife and I came looking for answers to what happened. Is there anything you can tell us?" The thirteenth head of the Sumeragi didn't answer, in fact he made no sign that he had even heard. Reiko for her part stared in complete disbelief that they would dare to push so. "Sumeragi-sama, my wife and I came all this way to bring these here, these paintings that nearly destroyed my life. You are obviously connected to them. You recognised our address. Did you know someone who lived there before us?"

"My uncle is in no condition to be interviewed in such a manner," snapped Reiko, her pale green eyes flashing. "You would do best to leave."

Hajime stared at the old man. "You know. You know who created those paintings, don't you. Who was he?"

The Sumeragi looked at Hajime sharply. "How did you know it was a man?" he demanded.

Hajime blinked, startled. "I … I don't know. I just did." The Sumeragi didn't answer, instead he sat very, very still. Hajime tried again. "Please, tell me. What kind of man painted those? Whose life was it that took over mine?"

Silence. Then the Sumeragi spoke. "I do not expect to be disobeyed under my own roof," he said quietly. He lifted his head to fix all three of them in a look of emerald and gold. "I asked you all to leave. Please do so."

Hajime faltered. "But—"

" _I said leave!_ " the Sumeragi half-shouted.

For a moment Hajime debated standing his ground. Someone touched his hand, and he turned. Toru gazed up at him with pleading eyes.

"Hajime. Let it go."

Firmly, she began to pull him away. Hajime let her. The Sumeragi turned his unsettling gaze to Reiko, who was still supporting him. "I said, all of you."

Reiko's eyes widened. "But, uncle, surely I—" She broke off at the look her uncle gave her. Hajime couldn't see it, but whatever it was, Reiko unconsciously backed away from it. "Yes, Uncle Subaru."

Hajime and Toru were already at the door. Reiko stared at her uncle for the moment, then rose as well. She cast a critical eye at the paintings, then at her uncle's bowed head. For a moment it seemed that she would collect the paintings and bring them away, but she must have thought the better of it. She opened the door for Hajime and Toru, and led them out without looking back.

Hajime looked back. A white figure knelt on the floor bathed in sunlight. As he watched, the figure reached out to caress whatever picture was lying in front of him.

Then the door closed.

In silence, Reiko led them back through the halls they had traveled just before. Her face was troubled. It made things far from comfortable. Hajime felt a small hand winding into his seeking reassurance, and he squeezed it, grateful for his wife's presence.

"Sumeragi-san," began Hajime uncomfortably, disturbed by what had just passed, "allow me to apologise."

"Please, don't worry about it. You had a right to ask."

"But, your uncle, will he be all right?" asked Toru.

Reiko sighed. "I don't know. I think so." The tone of her voice indicated that she would not be fond to carry on this conversation, but Hajime wasn't so easily put off.

"What happened, Sumeragi-san? Your uncle seemed to recognise our address. Did he know someone who lived there before us?"

"I don't know. I'm as surprised as you – as far as I know, my uncle knows only one person in Tokyo, and he doesn't live anywhere near your area."

"Sumeragi-san, whatever it is I found, it nearly drove me mad and destroyed my marriage. Your uncle is obviously connected in some way. There has to be _something_ you can tell us."

Reiko stopped and turned to face them. "There is little I can tell you. My uncle keeps his personal matters extremely private, even from me. I've been his student for twenty years and he's still an enigma. This is the first time I've ever seen him display such sharp emotion."

"What do you mean?" asked Hajime.

"I was adopted as my uncle's heir after his wife and child died in an accident. I was only five, but I remember everyone whispering at the funeral about how Uncle Subaru was so impassive, how he wasn't showing any grief that his wife and their son had been killed in a stupid car crash. And then adopting me the day after the funeral, well, that certainly caused a bit of a shock. Not that my uncle really cares about what other people think."

"But the paintings, what are they, what do they have to do with your uncle?" pressed Hajime.

"I told you, I don't know exactly. All I could tell was that the paintings were hidden by onmyoujitsu and were created to seal something away, which means whoever did it he must have been an onmyouji of some level. But the one friend my uncle has in Tokyo is not an onmyouji, and my uncle doesn't even travel to Tokyo much in the first place." Reiko hesitated a little. "I have heard, though, that when he was young he used to live in the capital city, but I was told never to ask him about that time."

"Why not?" asked Hajime curiously.

Reiko shrugged. "If I can't ask, I can't know. I did hear that he lost his sister under painful circumstances when he was sixteen, I think, so I'm guessing that's the reason. I've never asked the details." She looked at the two of them. "Believe me, I want to understand all of this just as much as you do. Those paintings … whatever they are, they mean a lot to him."

Hajime didn't reply as Reiko began walking again, leading them back the way they had come. He thought back to the almost frightening intensity with which the thirteenth head of the Sumeragi had looked at him, the somehow familiar shades of emerald and molten gold …

"I might be wrong, Sumeragi-san," said Hajime slowly, "but I think the person in the Last painting was your uncle." Reiko and Toru stopped to look at him curiously. "The eyes, they're the same, I'm sure of it, but not only that, there's something familiar about your uncle. Something inside of me recognised him, but it wasn't _me_ …" He gestured helplessly, trying to form an explanation. "I don't know. It's more like … whatever it was I experienced from those paintings, it recognised Sumeragi-sama through me somehow."

"What do you mean?" asked Reiko.

Hajime thought for a moment. "I don't know," he admitted, "but that moment when I collapsed, it was something about your uncle that caused it. It felt like … an ending. As if something could now be at peace."

Silence. The shadows on the floor grew longer – the sun was probably setting outside. Finally, Reiko sighed. "I don't know. I cannot give you any answers, for which I am sorry, but I will not ask my uncle for them either. If he wishes to say anything, he will do so in his own time." She glanced back down the corridor. "You have stayed long enough. I thank you for your effort, but I hope you will forgive me if I ask you to leave. I must go back to my uncle."

Hajime and Toru bowed. "We understand," said Toru.

Reiko half-smiled, and bowed as well. She led them personally to the main doors and arranged for one of the servants to drive them in one of the household cars to the Granvia hotel and transfer their luggage to a room there booked by the Sumeragi. "For I wish that I could have been a better hostess this afternoon, so please let me try to make the rest of your stay in Kyoto enjoyable," explained Reiko when Hajime and Toru protested. In the end they could do nothing but accept her offer with sincere thanks.

Five minutes later, they were driven out the gates of the Sumeragi estate with nothing, no strange chest with paintings, no answers, nothing but silence, questions, and each other.

 

* * *

 

"Are you sure you're all right?" asked Toru as they prepared for sleep.

Hajime nodded, smiling almost shyly. "I feel fine."

"I'm happy to hear that."

On impulse Hajime caught her up in an embrace. "Thank you," he said softly, "thank you for putting up with me."

Slim fingers trailed through his hair. "Of course. Even if you were … difficult."

They laughed wryly. Toru sighed and pressed against him. "I wonder who he was," she murmured.

"Who?"

"The artist. He must have been special to Sumeragi-sama. What do you think?"

Hajime tightened his hold upon his wife as he stared out the window at the city lights. He thought back to each painting, and what he had endured from all. "I think he must have been lonely. He couldn't have been as lucky as me."

"And how are you lucky?" Toru's voice seemed amused.

Hajime smiled. "I'm lucky to have someone who has stayed with me all this time. How many people can say that?"

Another amused laugh. Hajime stopped it with his mouth. As Toru pulled him closer he felt a spark of pity for the artist whose story he had unleashed, a story that seemed to have been full of turmoil and pain, but then he soon forgot it, losing himself in his wife's embrace.

After all, that wasn't his story. He had his own.


	9. End

Three weeks after their return from Kyoto, Hajime and Toru were enjoying a quiet Saturday morning together. Hajime had just been down to collect the mail, and was now going through it whilst Toru read the paper. He smiled to watch her wrestle with the large sheets that didn't want to cooperate with her coffee cup.

"I think we need a bigger dining table," Toru complained.

Hajime chuckled. "It's fine for us."

"For us _two_ , yes, but I'm not going to become a human baby-chair."

Hajime nearly dropped his letters. "Are you—?"

"Not yet." Toru blushed. "Anything important in the post?"

Hajime flipped idly through the envelopes. "Phone bill. Electricity bill. Water bill." He made a mock-scowl as he put each of those aside to be dealt with later, then came to one with a well-known logo on the front. "Oh look, the payment notice for the mortgage."

"Don't give that face, we'll deal with it." Toru said a little reprovingly as she turned another page.

Hajime shrugged and added that envelope to the 'later' pile as well. Then he came to the last one. It was a white A4 sized envelope, thick and heavy, and there was the vague outline of something rectangular. Looking at the front of it, the postmark was from Kyoto.

Hajime stared in disbelief for a moment. Then he opened it. The envelope was lined with bubble wrapping. He popped some of it while trying to reach inside and Toru glanced up. "What is it?" she asked.

"Something from Kyoto." Ignoring his wife's startled look, Hajime finally managed to retrieve the contents. First there was a letter, crisply folded with a traditional seal. Second and more curious was a small, slim case, rather similar to that of designer watches, made of dark wood and polished smooth. It reminded Hajime a little of the chest, and he touched it apprehensively.

Intrigued, Toru moved closer. "What's that?"

"I don't know." Unsure of whether he wanted to know what was inside the case just yet, Hajime opened the accompanying letter, skimming past the body of the text to the signature at the end. "It's from Reiko Sumeragi-san … Fourteenth Clan Head?"

"She was training to be Sumeragi-sama's successor, wasn't she?" asked Toru.

"Yes, she was, but she wasn't the Clan Head when we met—" He broke off. Understanding dawned on his face, as it did on Toru's.

"Oh," Toru whispered.

Still stunned by the unexpected communiqué, Hajime went to read the letter itself. It opened with a ceremonial salutation and a thank you for their visit. It told them of the passing of Subaru Sumeragi, thirteenth head of the Sumeragi clan, and his funeral. It told them that before his death, the thirteenth clan head wanted to thank Hajime and Toru for their effort of bringing the chest and paintings to him, and to apologise for his behaviour during their visit. It told them that the case sent with the letter contained a gift.

"‘It is magic, yes, but a different sort to the kind you encountered,'" Hajime read aloud. "‘It was created especially by my respected uncle for you and your family with his blessing. It would please him to know that the life the two of you will live together in your home is happy. To further aid in this, my uncle has taken the liberty of arranging in his will for your financial situation with the bank to be resolved. I hope that you will accept this parting gift from him, an admirable man and beloved uncle to whom your discovery meant more than you can ever imagine. Yours in thankfulness, etc.'" Hajime put down the letter and sat back in his chair as the revelations sank in. Toru couldn't speak, and in the end she bowed her head to whisper a short prayer for spirits departed.

It seemed a while later before Hajime roused himself. He reached for the case, which was warm to the touch. Hajime stared at it for a long time, remembering his last encounter with magic and boxes, before he brought himself to open it.

The case was lined with white brocade. Nestled inside was an elegant plaque of gold about as long as Toru's hand, on a ribbon of woven silk. Beneath the plaque hung two small golden bells under which fell a pale blue tassel, also of silk, the upper part of which was tied to form tight loops like a four leaf clover. On the plaque engraved in the most exquisite of craftsmanship, were the characters for Harmony, Hope, and Happiness.

"Toru-san, look," breathed Hajime, lifting the piece out of the case and handing it to his wife to examine. She took it from him gently, and traced the kanji with her fingers.

"What should we do with this?" asked Hajime.

Toru held the piece up by the ribbon so that the golden charm caught the morning light. The bells chimed musically, their sound hanging in the air like two souls in flight. "Treasure it."

 

 

_Early morning, and the room was growing light. As of yet it was still uncoloured, washed out in the beginnings of pale dawn, but that would change slowly, and the little world inside this bedroom would come to life again._

_For some reason, he was already awake._

_He lay there for a long time, staring at the gradually disappearing shadows on the ceiling. His left arm was pinned beneath the slim weight pressed against his side; he turned slightly to look down at the young man still deep in slumber, dark head tucked against his shoulder. He couldn't feel his fingers any more – his arm must be growing numb – but for some reason he couldn't bring himself to move. And yet he couldn't go back to sleep either. In the end all he did was lie in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering what he was doing there in the first place._

_Minutes ticked by. The feeling in his arm drained away.  
_

_Why was he still here?_

_Finally, one of them moved. The young man rolled over just enough to free his arm, which exploded into pins and needles. Hissing a little in annoyance he flipped the sheets away and got out of bed, carelessly leaving the young man uncovered and nude. The moment he was gone the young man murmured something in his sleep, frowning as he curled up around the pillow. But he did not wake._

_The man scowled a little, something that went completely unnoticed by his sleeping lover. Stepping over his clothes, which lay scattered on the floor with white bandages, he went into the bathroom to take a shower. He washed slowly, stretching out time, hoping that by doing so the young man would eventually awaken and thus catch him in the act. He wondered what look would decorate the other's face when he saw him preparing to leave with nothing more than a smile. He had never seen it before, because usually he always left before the young man woke up._

_Why was he waiting today?_

_Finished, he turned off the water and wrapped a towel around himself before going back to the bedroom. The young man was still asleep, but outside the sun was rising, spreading a blanket of light over the city. He stopped to watch it, caught by the changing colours in the sky. Only when the sun was high and bright enough to make him flinch did he turn back to the bedroom. He stepped away from the window, idly glancing at the bed and the person in it._

_He stopped. Before him was a perfect picture._

_It helped that the bandages were off. It gave the illusion the young man was as unsullied as he had been when they had made love for the first time. Sunlight flowed over smooth skin like bright water, leaving soft shadows that hinted at places to explore even though he already knew them in all intimacy. It was beautiful, exquisite, a masterpiece depicting_ _a sleeping_ _angel …_ _the image burn_ _ed itself in his memory, and he wanted to paint it so that he could look on it forever._

_Suddenly, the young man's eyes opened. The emerald eye blinked adorably, shaking off sleep. Then it fixed on him, and him alone, and all the eloquence in the world could not have described when he felt then._

_"Seishirou-san," his lover asked sleepily, "what are you doing up so early?"_

_It was several moments before he could bring himself to speak. "Nothing," he said, "nothing, Subaru-kun." Suddenly he smiled. "Just enjoying the view."_

_The young man blushed. Then he extended one hand invitingly to him._

_He smiled. Letting the towel fall he returned to the bed and into the young man's arms. It was a warm place, and he closed his eyes, trying to analyse, to understand and name what it was he had felt – was still feeling – when this person had looked at him. He would have to paint it when he got home …_

_A kiss on his lips, shy and soft. Without thinking he caught it_ _fiercely_ _and pulled his lover close._

_He would paint later. This was their picture._

**Author's Note:**

> Extra notes, and fanart created by readers back when I first published this fic, can be found at my Tumblr [here](http://leareth-svraiel.tumblr.com/post/116979487748/1-2-7-11-in-regards-to-the-painting-fic-i).


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